


Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening, part 5

by raedbard



Series: Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening [5]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-09
Updated: 2006-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is pain, sleep and guilt, new lovers and new confidantes come to light, projectile beer bottles, and apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening, part 5

**Author's Note:**

> This part goes from 'In the Shadow of Two Gunmen' to 'The Drop In'. 'Noel' doesn't happen in this 'verse, obviously, and Sam has his 'episode' directly after the events of 'The Drop In', which go a little differently in this story. There is a five week gap between section 2 and section 3, during which the events of 'The Leadership Breakfast' and 'The Drop In' take place.

At least he doesn't wake up screaming and Sam guesses that there's something to be glad about. There's sweat on his brow when he wakes up, as there was the last four nights, back at the hospital. It trickles down into his eyes and stings him, and when he runs the back of his hand up under his jaw and into the creases of his neck, it's there too. He doesn't dream, or at least he doesn't remember dreaming, but the pain is enough torment, and the sleep doesn't do much to ease it. Sam sighs up to the ceiling, and winces. He makes himself lie still and breathe easy, tries not to move his chest or abdomen more than he must.

"How is it?" asks a soft voice from the doorway.

It's Toby, who is still here. He's standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, in rolled-up shirt-sleeves with his tie and jacket missing - both thrown over the back of the chair by Sam's bed. He looks tired, over-cautious, black streaks hiding in the lines around his eyes. Toby's concern, the visible marks of guilt on him - lying low on his face and in the clenches of his fingers just make Sam hurt, just bring the fatigue on even stronger. Sam turns away from him, and looks out of the window.

"It hurts."

"Bad?"

"Pretty bad, Toby, yes."

Toby sits back down in his chair and says, his voice soft, "Sorry."

"Don't, Toby. Okay?"

"Sure."

"Listen, don't you have work to do? A country to run ... you know?"

"No," Toby says, his voice still soft but intractable and his eyes dark and hard as stone.

"Okay, well, I'm still kinda tired. I'm going to try to sleep without moving my body, if you'll excuse me."

He says, "Okay," and as Sam turns his head away from him and closes his eyes, he hears Toby's chair creak and the shift of Toby's hands arranging the bedclothes.

"Toby ... " he says, hating the sound his voice makes, hard and unyielding and building up a wall between them.

"No, Sam," he says, almost whispering now. "Just go to sleep. I won't bother you."

"Toby ... don't," he says, turning his head back and opening his eyes again. "I'm sorry."

He smiles and it doesn't touch his eyes, "No, you're not. Go to sleep."

Sam closes his eyes again, wanting to turn his head away but unwilling to move; he feels his cheeks start to burn and a shiver, first hot as his blush and then cool, flood up through his chest. He knows that Toby is watching him, staring, and it's not an easy stare to sleep under. Sam sighs and shifts, then winces as the pain shoots back through him, covering the same path as his shiver. He pushes back against the impulse to cry by twisting his eyes up harder, following the patterns of light that appear behind them, hoping that they bring rest.

He's started to forget and is only minutes from sleep by the time Toby gets up from his chair and bends over him, a shadow that Sam can't see against the sunlight. Sam is aware, dimly, of the warmth of a hand in his hair, stroking him easily; then the end of shallow breaths falling on his face. He opens his eyes without realising he has; he might be asleep even now, and has played moments like these out in dreams enough times to wonder if he is. Toby is sitting on the bed now, the curve of his thigh and hip moulded against Sam's ribs and his hand stroking across Sam's bare breastbone where the two open buttons of his pyjamas leave the skin exposed. Toby touches him with the tips of his fingers and the pad of his thumb, but when he sees that Sam is awake he stops, and lays his palm flat over Sam's collarbone.

"Sorry," he says, again.

Sam sighs, "Stop apologising Toby, it wasn't your fault."

"You should have been with me."

"But I wasn't. Why are we talking about this again?"

"I can't ... " he stops, swallows. "I don't know."

"Everything came out fine in the end. We're all still here," Sam says, trying to sound like he remembers himself sounding, before.

Toby nods, lets out a long breath. He moves his hand from Sam's chest to the edge of the bedclothes, twisting the corners in his fingers. After a minute he says, "So why does it feel like this?"

Sam loses track, in the few hours between his first awakening and his last at noon when Toby slips out and back to the office, of who is comforting who.

He asks, he always does. Sam leans towards Toby, sitting up and pulling the skin around his stitches, pulling pain back into his abdomen in sharp bursts. He winces, eyes shut tight, and when his eyes open, he sees Toby, staring at him again. His hand has moved closer to Sam's chest and Sam catches it before he can take it away and holds on.

"Sam ... "

"Toby, it's okay."

His voice sounds dense, hard as marble, "It's not okay, Sam."

"I need this."

Toby is silent to that, and he takes his hand out of Sam's, rubs his fingers across his forehead. But Sam runs ahead, letting the words fall from his mouth as freely as the pain runs through his body, uncaring and now unable to stop:

"I need you, here, Toby - it's ... the pain, it's not going away and I can't ... It doesn't have to be ... the other thing - just, don't go." He silences himself, then says, softly, looking up and into his face: "Please."

Toby sighs, hard, and nods. He reaches out for Sam's hand, then shakes his head and leans over. He misjudges the kiss - his mouth finishes up soft at the rise of Sam's chin, his moustache scratching against Sam's lips. Toby laughs a little, resting his face against Sam's neck.

"I can't even do this right."

Sam smiles, feels the pain recede, a little. "It's fine ... you're doing fine."

"Well, thank you for that," Toby says, his voice sarcastic but no longer hard.

"You need some practice."

"Shut up, Sam."

"Seriously, a little work - you'll be great."

"You want me to stay or not?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"How are we doing this?"

Sam smiles, down into the bedclothes. He shifts, slow and still wincing, across to the other side of his bed and raises the bedclothes so they are open to Toby. "You want to ... ?"

'Okay," Toby says, his voice so quiet that is almost lost in the noise of early morning traffic.

They lie together in Sam's bed, not touching only resting, Sam's shoulderblades pressed against Toby's chest. Toby holds him still, one arm under Sam's ribs so the pain can't touch him too hard and his left leg arched up to cushion Sam's hips. He lies still, almost on his back between Toby's legs and concentrates on breathing, steady, slow. As he's starting to fall asleep again Sam becomes aware of the trace of Toby's fingers up along his side, under his pyjamas - up to his ribs, low to his hips. He feels Toby's mouth and the scratch of his beard again against his collar, lips touching the nape of his neck. Sam finds Toby's hand as it comes to rest on the sharp point of his hipbone, binds their fingers together, and starts to forget again.

When he wakes up the last time, Toby has slipped from the bed and is putting on his jacket again, re-knotting his tie. He smiles, but still stiff and uneasy, down at Sam,

"I'm going back now."

"Okay," Sam says.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Toby's face is pale, the black smudges still nestling under his eyes. "I'll be back soon," he says and turns to go.

Sam smiles up at him, "Toby?"

"Yeah?" he asks, turning back on his heel. Sam smiles again, raises his eyebrow.

"Oh," Toby says.

It's a gentle kiss, a better one, though still as if Toby is afraid to hurt him. Just the brush of lips and the stroke of Toby's thumb around his cheekbone, gone in a moment. Sam opens his eyes.

"I'll be back tonight," Toby says, and walks out of the door.

2.

Toby hasn't seen his own bed for a couple days now.

He has stayed with Sam for two weeks; at first just coming back to him at nights, just checking up; then staying longer, sleeping fitfully on the couch and listening for him in the silence of the night, and now, these last few nights like the very first, sleeping in Sam's bed. He doesn't make any suggestions or offer comfort unless it's asked for.

In the first days, Sam had still been pissed - shifting from anger to contrition in under a minute. His eyes had dark smudges, like the swipe of a finger, nestling in the fine lines and Toby couldn't bear to look at them or think about how white they made Sam's face appear. He couldn't move much, or be left alone for very long and even though the hospital had discharged him, earlier than expected, they had agreed amongst themselves and with Leo's nod, that they should stay with him. Josh had offered first, then CJ and Donna said, very quietly, that she would be happy to look in on Sam herself, when they didn't have the time. He had watched them, then spoken: _I'll do it._ His tone, and his expression too, he imagined, had done what no amount of words could have and there had been no argument; Sam became his responsibility.

During those early days, Toby had stood silent and allowed him every freedom, hands by his sides. Sam's anger - coming out in high, strained words - was something he knew he deserved; Sam's apologies, which came later in the night or the next morning, he knew he did not, and so he said nothing. As the days passed, Sam had changed again. He had asked, the sun shining full on his face, if Toby would stay and so he has, and now they share the bed and sleep when Toby gets back from the West Wing. Toby lay those first nights with his arms around Sam, his body tight and controlled, but for his fingers stroking Sam's shoulders, or his upper arm. As Sam continued to heal, slow at first, lying in the darkness, then faster as he turned towards the light like a flower in spring, he had begun to curl into Toby's body as he fell asleep, time after time. Last night, Toby held him, not tight just gentle, his arms and his legs behind Sam's hardly daring to move. He had slept, fitfully.

When he gets in, using the key Sam slipped into his trouser pocket two weeks ago as they huddled together in his bed, he finds Sam standing at the window, looking out over his street. The sky outside is dark, it's cold, and the street is lit orange by the street lamps. Toby, still in his coat, can feel the chill air across his face. Sam, silhouetted at the window, is wearing nothing but the oversized cotton pyjamas which CJ brought over a few days ago.

"Hey - Sam!"

"Hey," Sam says, turning himself slowly, one arm braced strong to the wall. "What?" he asks, when he sees Toby's expression.

"You can't be out of bed."

"Why not?"

"You could fall, Sam. Get back to bed, okay?"

"You're really giving your all to that impersonation of my mother, huh, Toby?"

"Just shut up and lie down!"

"Okay, okay!" he says, making the three careful steps over to his bed and waving Toby away when he comes around the bed and puts his arm around Sam's waist. "I'm fine, Toby."

"You're not fine!"

"I'm _fine_," Sam says, with a gasp, as he falls into the bed. Toby watches him shift over to his side, and rolls his eyes at the small wince which shivers through him as his muscles pull and twist.

"See - not what I'd call fine," he says as he pulls his coat off and throws it over the back of the armchair in the corner. He comes over, sits by the bed and pulls up the sheets over Sam, then pats at them with his left hand, soft, unsure, staring down at the bedclothes. He looks up only when Sam's hand stops the movement of his own over the sheets.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks, his voice soft, smiling.

"Nothing."

"Toby."

"Are you sure about coming back to work tomorrow?" he asks, looking back down at the bedclothes, and Sam's hand, still covering his own.

"I don't think I can stay in bed much longer, Toby."

"Well, fine - get up, move around!"

"I don't think I can stay _here_ much longer, is what I mean."

Toby sighs and looks back up, "Okay."

"Really?"

"I asked Leo; he 's fine with it. Just said to make sure you don't fall over stuff." Toby tries a smile, half-hearted.

"But you're not okay with it."

"I just ... "

"You're worried." Sam says, grinning.

Toby just looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah."

"Don't be," Sam says, leaning forward, holding his hand tighter. "Toby?" He looks up at Sam, turns his palm upward so the young man can link their fingers together; Sam presses his warmth hard into Toby's hand, rubs his thumb over his skin. He leans further forward, strokes Toby's cheek, then kisses him. "Don't worry," Sam says, in a whisper, "Come to bed."

Toby knows, afterwards, that it was his own fault, that he began it. At first, Sam's hands reach for Toby where he is buried, warm under the sheets and keeping to his own side of the bed unless he's asked to come in closer. Sam asks, with his hands stroking around the seam of Toby's undershirt, then over his upper arms, then into his hair, pulling.

"Sam ..." he whispers, warning.

"Toby, c'mon ... "

"Just ... just this, okay?" he whispers, putting his hand to Sam's cheek, making him look up and into his eyes, in the dark.

"Yeah."

"Not too far."

"No, Toby," Sam says, smiling.

"Don't mess with this, Sam."

"No," Sam says, grinning now.

"Take something seriously, can't you? You were shot for crying out loud!"

"I know, Toby, I was there."

"See, now you're fucking with this," he says, propping himself up on one elbow.

"But not with you, obviously," Sam says in a perfect, even voice which just hitches a little as he brings one arm up behind his head.

"Sam!"

"Toby."

"Just take it easy, alright?"

"I know you're scared to hurt me," Sam says, the smile turned down to just the corners of his mouth, his voice lower.

Toby can't say anything to that, since it's the truth; can only stare down at the bare pale skin of Sam's neck, blue in the moonlight.

"You're not going to hurt me, Toby."

"No, I'm really not."

Sam sighs, then he says, his voice sounding heavy and hollow in the dark, "It helps. With the pain."

"Really?"

'Yes."

"Sam, I'm just not sure it's the best idea right now ... or ever."

"Last time one of us said no, one of us was shot. No time like the present, Toby. And I'm not going to be in this bed forever."

He swallows, runs his fingers over the pillow beneath his hand, clenches the material up between thumb and forefinger, and takes a deep breath. 'Okay," Toby says. "But not too far."

"Right."

It goes much further, all the way to the end for Sam, though not so for him. His fingers are clumsy undoing the buttons of Sam's pyjamas and his mouth skims over the tender scar that runs down the side of Sam's stomach as he kisses the soft skin there, holding Sam's hips still with his hands. He wants to give comfort, stop up the pain for a little and send Sam off to sleep, but it ends with his head low between Sam's open legs, covers thrown off and his face too hot in the cold air, giving his first blow-job, inexpertly, cushioning Sam's final moans with his body, his arms wrapped tight around Sam's waist. Sam gasps his name up to the air, strokes his fingers through Toby's curls and down his neck; Toby spits into his hand and gropes around for something to wipe it on, eventually deciding on his own undershirt, which will wash, in the morning. He feels Sam's hands reach for his shoulders, Sam's arms come round his neck.

Toby goes to him, tired and confused, and lets Sam kiss him, then just falls asleep, unspent, in his new lover's bed.

3.

Five weeks later, Sam sits in an invisible room, hidden somewhere in the White House. The room is not well-lit, and Sam can hear the rumble of the water system flow through pipes not far overhead. It is not settling, although the low current of noise provides something to listen to besides the sound of expectant silence. Providing the silence is a man named Stanley Keyworth, an psychiatrist, an expert at generating such an atmosphere. Sam is trying, trying hard, not to dislike him just for this, and the questions he has been asking for the last two hours.

"Sam," he says, his voice level and toneless, "Is there anything else? Anything ... personal?"

"Personal?"

"Yes. There's something else here, among all the other, numerous, things which you're not telling me, Sam. I think it's something you feel you can't speak about."

"It's just possible that you're right about that, Dr. Keyworth."

"Stanley."

"Yes."

"Everything we talk about here is confidential, Sam."

"Well, maybe I just don't wanna tell you about it."

"Listen, Sam: I have no interest, prurient or otherwise, in what you might be doing here. I'd just like to know what's going on." Keyworth pauses, inclines his head to the right, "How to help."

"I can't tell you."

"You have to, Sam," Keyworth says, his voice admitting of no argument.

Sam looks up, tries to stop his face becoming blank in real anger, "There's someone."

Keyworth nods, not reassuring but in quiet affirmation of what he had obviously already thought. "Who?" he asks.

"Is it relevant?"

"It might be, I don't know yet."

Sam takes in a deep breath and hopes, once more, that there aren't any secret cameras in this tiny room which he's never seen before. He says, "Toby Ziegler."

Keyworth's eyes narrow and he inclines his head again, a little, to the left this time. "Yeah?"

"It's Toby Ziegler ... the someone. It's Toby."

"_Yeah_," Keyworth says.

"You already knew that?"

"Yes, I did."

"_Okay_."

"I'm very intelligent, Sam. You're going to have to try a bit harder."

"Aren't you going to say anything? How scandalous this is, something like that?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Sam, do you really think this is the most shocking thing I've heard all year? Really? It barely makes my top twenty."

"Well, I'm glad to have impressed you, Dr. Keyworth."

"These things happen. And, as far as I know, the US government does not inflict 'don't ask, don't tell' on its civilian employees."

"Oh, funny. Very good."

"I do my best."

"You could tour."

"Thank you very much, Sam. Your opinion," he says, one eyebrow raised, "Means a great deal to me."

"This kind of general attitude is disturbing in a psychiatrist."

"I've been told that."

"So banter's all you've got then?"

Keyworth looks up at him, the left corner of his mouth twisted up, slightly, in a knowing smile. "Not even close," he says, voice level once more. "Keep talking, Mr. Seaborn."

"This would be where you want me to talk about Toby?"

Keyworth shugs; a slight movement of mouth and shoulders. He says, "Yes, if you'd like."

"Could you just tell me the catch now, save me having to sit here trying to work it out?"

"No, I don't think I will, Sam."

"No, this is good - because if I didn't want to beat my head against the wall before, I certainly do now."

"I only want you to talk, Sam."

"I _can't_ talk about what you want me to talk about, Stanley!"

"Sam, everything said here is confidential - as I believe, since I'm sure you didn't flunk out of grade school, you already know. And even if it wasn't, I have no wish to sell the sex-filled tale of Sam Seaborn and Toby Ziegler, no matter how thrilling I'm sure it is. No one would buy my newspaper and Toby would, inevitably, find me in my dark alleyway. So, talk to me, Sam."

"About what?"

"About anything."

"About Toby?"

"Yes, about Toby. About anything you like. We've got some time."

"How long is 'some time'?"

"At this rate, next Fall."

"Patience isn't one of your virtues, is it, Doctor?"

"I try very hard."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Sam, please ... "

"There's nothing to tell."

"Listen, Sam, I already know what happened tonight - you're not spoiling the ending for me by holding back."

"So it's even more pointless for me to go over it for you again, then?"

"I'm not the one who needs to hear the story."

"You think I don't know what happened? You think I'm delusional in some way? Because that's really very reassuring, let me tell you."

"Sam ... "

"It was a fight, Stanley, just a fight. Toby has them all the time."

"With you?"

"With everyone. Really, spend a half an hour with him sometime. Education, the Middle East, arts funding, the Yankees - pick your button."

"But this one was a little different."

"Not really."

"He doesn't fight with you."

"No, he usually just orders me to do something."

"You don't fight back."

"After a while it loses its allure."

"But not tonight."

"No."

"Tonight you fought back?"

"I guess."

Keyworth smiles, "You guess?"

"Yeah."

"And where did that beer bottle end up?"

"I threw it," Sam says, looking down at his hands which are knotted together on the table top. There is a small cut, no longer bleeding, in his left palm. "I threw it."

"I understand you missed."

"Yes," he says, his voice almost getting lost under the noise of flowing water in the pipes, under the weight of Stanley's expectant silence.

"Did you want to miss him, Sam?"

"Of course!"

"You didn't want that bottle to hit Toby in the head, in his chest?"

"No!"

"Are you sure?"

"Dr Keyworth, I hope you know that I could care less if this sounds rude - just what the hell are you implying?"

"I think you wanted to hurt Toby."

"Why would I do that, Stanley? Why would I ever do that?"

"You tell me, Sam. Why did you do that?"

Sam shakes his head, "I was angry, I was pissed ... but I never meant to hit him."

"And that's just the way Josh Lyman and Leo McGarry tell it, Sam. I see they've taught you well. But I'd like to know the truth."

"Why do you need to know the truth, Stanley?"

"I would have thought you of all people would be able to tell me the importance of truth, Sam. From everything I hear, anyway."

"Just who have you been talking to?"

'I hear things."

"Obviously."

"Sam, you were hurting tonight, feeling pushed-aside, feeling discarded. Toby had authorised the drop-in and everyone was in the loop but you."

"I don't know. I don't know what I was trying to do."

"And Toby was behind it, it was Toby's fault."

"It wasn't his fault," Sam says, quietly. "He was just ahead of me ... it wasn't his fault."

"What wasn't his fault, Sam?" Keyworth says. His voice has dropped to a whisper, and the sound is the last thread of noise tying Sam to this room full of silence, the last thing that stops the noise of the gunshots becoming deafening.

"The shots ... "

"Yes, Sam. The shots, the gunmen. That night, where was Toby?"

"He was just ahead of me ... he went ahead, he wanted to talk to the President."

"And he left you?"

"He found me."

"Yes, he did, Sam. Yes he did."

Sam takes a deep breath and wipes a hand over his forehead, slick with sweat.

"Alright," Keyworth says, taking a breath himself, "We'll try another."

"What?" Sam says, listening hard for the sound of his voice.

"Are you in love with him, Sam?" Keyworth asks. His voice, tender and soft, finds Sam in the middle of the din of noise in his head. Keyworth's face is gentle, and Sam stares at him and then down at his hands, now flat on the table. Then he looks up, straight to Keyworth's eyes:

"Yes," he says.

"Do you think he's in love with you?"

"No," he says, after a little pause. He looks down at his hands again, resting together in his lap, then smiles up at Keyworth. The room is silent now, and not quite so dark. "No, I don't."

"I don't think you're right about that."

Sam smiles, "I know Toby."

"I've no doubt of that, Sam, barring this one particular."

"And you don't know him at all."

"I don't need to."

Sam raises an eyebrow, but Keyworth keeps on talking:

"Think about it: how many men would do what he's done for you without that kind of motivation? How many of your friends could you depend on as you've depended on Toby?" His voices softens again, and he asks, "How many of your friends have you taken to bed?"

"Recently? Hardly any."

"And Toby has slept in your bed and held you in his arms for the last month or more?"

"Yes."

"And you think he doesn't love you?"

"He feels responsible."

"Yes, he does."

"I asked him, okay? I asked!" Sam says, looking up into Keyworth's eyes.

"What does that matter?"

Sam laughs, for a moment, then speaks, "It matters a great deal, Stanley."

"And last night, when this all came to a head, where was Toby?"

"You know where he was, Dr Keyworth."

"Yes, I do. And who do you think it was who called me?"

"Toby called you?"

"Yes, he did. Well, through some intermediaries. He guessed."

"Yes, well, I threw a beer bottle at his head, I guess I gave him a clue."

"I would think."

"So: I told you the truth. Am I cured now?"

"There's nothing wrong with you that some expensive therapy won't fix, Sam."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I'll leave you some names."

"Do I bore you too much?"

"Yes, you do."

Sam laughs, genuine, and the sound echoes soft in the dim room.

"Sam, I'm no expert, but talk to Toby, okay?"

Sam nods, "Yes, I will."

4.

It's dark back at the apartment, but for the one lamp that stands, tall and bronze, next to Sam's couch. It shines on Toby's pad as he writes, the words following each other painfully, in slow and uninspired stutters. He resists the impulse to tear the sheet away from the pad and throw it across the room. Instead he takes another, larger, sip of bourbon.

When the door creaks open in the hallway, Toby doesn't look up from his page, although his pen comes to a complete stop. He practises looking involved in the text, looking busy. He tries to ignore the headache forming behind his eyes and his memory of the sound of glass shattering inches from his face.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here," Sam says.

"I am."

"I'm glad."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay? Better ... I mean."

"Better, I think. Or not crazy anyway. So Dr. Keyworth promises me."

"Good."

"Toby?"

"What?"

"Could you look up? Can you look at me?"

Toby raises his eyes from the page, up to Sam's pale skin, the sweat-damp tangle of his hair. His tie is loose, his shirt creased and in Toby's mind, borrowed from his pad, the word 'liberty' writes itself over Sam's face, over the shine of the lamplight in his eyes. They do not look blue tonight, but black. Toby flinches from them.

"Toby ... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Sam."

"It's not, actually."

"I'll go in a minute. Just let me get my stuff together."

"Hey - hang on a minute!"

"Sam - "

"Toby, you don't have to go. For God's sake - I threw the bottle!"

"Yeah."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Little bit of glass, nothing major."

"Oh, god."

"I'm fine."

"Where did I hit you?"

"The broken glass grazed my neck, Sam. That's all."

"Let me see," Sam says, moving to sit beside him on the couch. His hands come up, one on Toby's shoulder and the other gentle on his cheek, turning his head to the side. The pass of Sam's fingers over the cuts, still fresh and open if not very deep, stings him. He hisses the pain out through his teeth, pulls his face away.

'Jesus, Toby."

"Sam, it's a cut - that's all."

"I'm sorry, Toby ..."

"You don't need to be."

"I'm sorry."

"Sam ... it's fine, okay? It's fine."

"Toby ... "

He lets Sam kiss him then - urgent, desperate kisses that fall on him like heavy sighs. Sam's fingers stroke over the cuts on his neck and they find the ones he didn't mention on his cheek, hidden in his beard. Toby flinches again but Sam's hands hold him still, one still on his shoulder and the other cupping his jaw, gentle. He kisses back because he thinks this might be his last chance, that the quality of betrayal won't allow another night like yesterday's, or the four weeks before.

"It was my fault ... the drop-in, the speech," he says, once they've both pulled away. He is staring at Sam's mouth.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"It had to be done, Sam."

"Yes."

"I know you don't agree with me, so you can just stop with this."

"No, I don't agree, but I threw a beer bottle at your head tonight and I meant to hit you with it, so I'm prepared to admit of the possibility that I might be wrong about some things. I don't want you to go, Toby."

"Okay."

'You'll stay?"

"Yes."

Sam sighs and moves towards him. His hand rests against Toby's chest as he leans in to kiss the uninjured cheek, just as soft, before he whispers, "I'm glad."

They sleep facing each other that night, and for once it is Toby who falls asleep first. Sam lies on his side, curled up against him with one arm thrown over Toby's chest. He falls asleep with his face bare inches from Sam's, the young man's breath a warm, milk-sweet air over his mouth. Toby leans into him, shifting, seeking further warmth, finally asking for his own comfort. Sam, still awake, gives it gladly. He takes Toby's weight against himself and presses a kiss to Toby's mouth, now open a little in sleep. Toby, dreaming, sees Sam standing above him. The word 'liberty' has been written over, Toby cannot see with what.


End file.
